


But the melody lingers on.

by earthbereconciled



Category: Youtube RPF, tronnor - Fandom
Genre: 1920's, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Jazz Age, M/M, Reincarnation AU, Soulmate AU, Tronnor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-28 00:00:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5070007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earthbereconciled/pseuds/earthbereconciled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Rubbish," Troye muttered, his lips pressing into a thin line. He was a musician, not a writer, and everything he'd written was absolutely useless. He promptly reached forward, yanking the paper from the typewriter's grip. He crumpled it in a shaking fist, tossing it over his right shoulder. It tapped the edge of the waste bin, gravity's tease, before settling on the floor just an inch or two short of its desired destination. Perfect. A physical representation of life, and his standing with it.</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Or the 1920's AU in which reincarnation is a thing and Connor and Troye are soul mates who've been torn apart many times in the past. Troye's memories of their lives together manifest themselves in recurring dreams, which he attempts to channel into something he's never successfully created before -- a fictional piece of prose. Troye is a professional songwriter, and Connor is a leader of his family's prestigious investment company. Romance ensues. Inspired by the 1927 song "The Song is Ended" by Annette Hanshaw.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But the melody lingers on.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, guys! Listening to some authentic 1920's music will definitely help you get a feel for the atmosphere. Here's a link to a YouTube playlist that has a lot of great songs that emulate the type of music playing in the background. https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLhsb5-4Hs7PYvtSXVopKqL2WyH5dgBqdL
> 
> This will definitely be a longer, chaptered fic. I'm going to try my absolute hardest to do weekly updates, but I'm a senior in high school and college app season has been a little crazy!!  
> I'm absolutely aware that Your Stars To Hold is long overdue for an update, and I'll get to that soon! I hope you'll enjoy this one. I really wanted to tackle an era piece, and I've always loved the 1920's! Please let me know what you think in the comments below; I love hearing from all of you!

 

 

> _August 29, 1928_
> 
> _We are relevant until we fall._
> 
> _Perhaps that was what compelled the creation of an immortality spell as if, for some deranged purpose, mankind would seize the chance to witness eternal life. This spell, intended to preserve knowledge, was later hardened and sharpened by sleight of sinister hand, a once prolific possibility dooming two lovers to an eternity spent searching. An eternity of losing one another to the grasp of mortality._

 

Troye sighed, projecting his gaze anywhere but upon his typewriter. The letters were inked black into a pearly white page, its pristine surface tarnished by this sad excuse of a paragraph. Lyrics had always been, after all, his primary mode of expression. He didn’t opt to be songwriter on a whim. Troye had dabbled in a bit of fiction writing recently, an action inspired by a series of perplexing dreams whose essence simply could not be embodied in song. They lingered for weeks at a time, as if he had his own television drama to return to each night as his eyelids grew heavy.

 

He never could decipher the boy's name, but Troye distinctly remembered his features. He routinely recalled them countless times whilst en route to meet he wrote for, or while attending fancy dinner parties. Troye's mind wandered over softly angled features, warm green eyes, and a smile that could light the stars. The boy hadn't a name Troye could recall yet. One lovely night, the summer prior, Troye had awoken after a dream and whispered his dream-boyfriend's --  _Was he just in deeming this his title? Was that strange?_ \-- name. But it had been too soon after slumber to mentally grasp the result of his mobile lips. Two syllables. That was all Troye had. And it tortured him, tantalized him, because he knew he'd probably never uncover it, despite the boy being of his own creation.

 

"Rubbish," Troye muttered, his lips pressing into a thin line. He was a musician, not a writer, and everything he'd written was absolutely useless. He promptly reached forward, yanking the paper from the typewriter's grip. He crumpled it in a shaking fist, tossing it over his right shoulder. It tapped the edge of the waste bin, gravity's tease, before settling on the floor just an inch or two short of its desired destination. Perfect. A physical representation of life, and his standing with it.

 

And so Troye stared at the next blank page, blue eyes distant and weary. The empty space begged to be filled, yet sufficient words receded to the depths of Troye's reluctantly conscious mind. Eyes flickered to the analog clock hung over the doorway. Half past four -- he'd been awake all through the night.

 

"Fuck it." He ran a hand through dark curls, an aggravated sigh escaping slightly chapped lips. The Australian stood from his desk, calmly walking out of the room. Troye glanced wearily into his kitchen as he passed through the majority of his apartment, fingertips tingling with the need to escape the confines of _la vie quotidienne._  He snatched his jacket from the coat tree on his way out, sure to lock the door behind him. The young man didn't spare his home a single glance as his feet tap a quick rhythm atop the staircase. He soon exited onto the streets of Los Angeles, hands placed gingerly in his pockets. His pace was quick, strides strong and purposeful. His feet had pinpointed his exact destination before his tired mind had made the connection -- he was headed for Rowley's, a quaint 24-hour diner that had, in the past few months, gained a new found significance in Troye's life. As he walked, Troye couldn't help but ponder the existence of the man that visited in his dreams, and grapple with just how he could capture the familiarity and longing he felt for this mysterious someone through written language.

He should have known working a piece of fiction would present a challenge, especially when its basis was, unbeknownst to Troye, not fiction at all.

 

* * *

* * *

 

"Care to join me?"

 

The answer was already assumed as Troye slid into the seat across from a man about his age, with whom he'd enjoyed late night (or perhaps the proper term would be early morning, at this hour) coffee countless times. Their tradition had begun several months prior, when Troye had felt a hankering for coffee and the diner had refrained from offering all but one vacated seat, directly across from the very man he sat across from now. A server quickly approached, and Troye was sure to thank her kindly. As the waitress poured Troye his cup of much needed caffeine, he offered the man across from him a curt nod. He soon paired this with a gentle smile, his expression tired yet compassionate all the same.

 

"So we meet again," Troye teased lightly before taking a long sip from his now full mug. "What brings you here tonight? Surely can't be business related."

 

They never fully planned their meetings; for the first few weeks they'd known one another, they’d continued to run into one another here upon pure chance. In fact, to this day, it was simply assumed that one of them would be present at their usual time -- if not, no foul was made. They both refrained from defining set plans. Life, so it seemed, always succumbed to its sinister temptation to dash them. Spontaneity had proven to be their most sensible ally. Troye allowed himself to drink in the other's presence for a moment, a soft smile capturing his lips. He reveled in the other man's strength, for he never once left any responsibility unfulfilled. Of course, such an assiduous approach to life's hurdles could be attributed to his stringent origins.

 

Connor Franta was the son of an entrepreneur and a nurse. He had three siblings, all of whom he maintained a close relationship with, despite the draining nature of his work. As soon as he'd graduated from high school, Connor's father bestowed upon him the glory and gore of being an integral part of the family trade. While Connor wasn't the official owner of the investment company, he very much acted as one -- he was put in charge of keeping the books, reviewing employees and, most unfortunately, negotiating deals with major investors. The company was a family treasure, an heirloom of his great-grandfather's glory, known far and wide as one of the most successful in the Los Angeles area. J.D. Franta & Co. sported the finest revenues and attracted prestigious men willing to pour their money into a winning firm. Connor had always been destined to inherit the company, which, in hindsight, should have made him both happy and exceptionally rich. Sadly enough, Mr. Franta only received one of those benefits, his current toils earning him a plethora of green yet little fulfillment. He carried out daily tasks, swallowed by the currents of his work. His life was controlled by the company, his sanity tested by the tides of financial strategy. Troye recognized this through the furrowed brow he often sported, staring wistfully out the window at a world that had long ago lost its spark. Connor Franta, while a remarkable person at heart, periodically lost touch with his ardor to live. It was moments like these, when Troye could fully observe how tired Connor was, that he longed to pull the other man into his arms and never set him free. Perhaps that would quell Connor's need to please, and he could finally prioritize his own well being over the health of his family's company.

 

"I've a meeting tomorrow with an investor, you see," Connor explained, fingertips trailing along the handle of his coffee mug. "One of importance." This was his fourth or fifth mug, no doubt, for he sat upright with his shoulders tensed, body on high alert. Troye noted this with a slight gravitational pull on his heart. Connor appeared to be wound a few spins too tight, a product of both his parents' expectations and his own perfectionist aspirations. The company's demands, surely, did not do anything to ease the weight resting heavy on his shoulders. "And I suppose..." The businessman added after a long hesitation, "I suppose I've found sleep a bit hard to come by." Troye tried not to notice the way Connor's gaze shifted to the table, nor the way his eyes lacked their usual spark. Tried and, consequently, failed.

 

"So naturally your solution is to douse yourself with caffeine," he replied with a subtle smirk. It was their way of joking at this late hour, the capacity for full laughter far beyond reach. It was with crinkled eyes and sarcastic comments that they braved the world's hardships. This was Troye's tactic, attempting to draw Connor out of the dark state he was in. Though he couldn't deny that the deadening of night inspired the quieting of the soul. While hearts raged on, emotions of a positive nature yielded their potency to a more lingering, passively dull state of being.

 

"Most definitely," Connor's lips twitched upward. "I thought to myself, _I could use some quality shuteye_. _But first_ , I reasoned, _coffee_." He raised his mug as if to toast, and Troye followed suit with a wry smile. A ceramic clink interrupted the near silent diner as their mugs tapped together. Simultaneously, each man took a sip of what could only be identified as their current life force.

 

Troye needed this every so often (or perhaps constantly);the promise of hot coffee and a companion to share it with, that is. It allowed him to forget, even if only for a fleeting moment, that he'd be spending his life alone. Either that, or pursuing love in secret. But really, those were one and the same. What use was affection if it could only be conveyed behind closed doors? He took a swig of coffee, gaze settling on the man across from him. He'd stick with subtle pining.

 

"I wrote," he said casually, as if the long stretch of silence between them had nothing to do with their respective states of unhappiness, their unique sensations of feeling trapped -- Troye within himself, and Connor within his career. Connor looked up, clearly intrigued by Troye's statement. He lifted his eyebrows, indicating that he wanted Troye to continue.

 

"Well. Attempted to write is a better way to word it. It was a story of sorts, but... I'm afraid I couldn't get much farther than finding a blank page." It wasn't one hundred percent true -- he'd written a bit, but surely it was nothing close to Connor's standards.

 

Connor's passions, after all, included writing, photography, and adoring life. He was a supremely creative individual trapped in a concrete world, but this setback did nothing to dim his brilliance. As of now, his responsibilities restricted his access to participating in the culture he so longed to be a part of. Connor longed to sell his own prints, poetry, and stories. He wanted to make an impact on the world outside of the financial realm. He wanted to inspire; to _be_ inspired.

 

In an effort to facilitate this transition, Troye had begun saving every penny in preparation for Connor's birthday in two weeks' time. He needed twenty more dollars in order to buy the gift he'd reserved in advance - a Kodak camera, one of the market's bests. Connor had been fanatically gushing about it since the first advertisement had appeared in the magazines. And, when the local shop happened to implement a storefront display of the very device that had won his heart, there was no feasible way Troye could deny the opportunity of procuring it for his friend’s pleasure. Because that, after all, was what friends did -- fashion one another’s happiness from a world of disarray.

 

The camera, a No. 1 Pocket Kodak, Series II, featured three shutter speeds and bulb action rivaled by no cameras on the market. Its handsome finish and dazzling automatic focus feature secured its place as the top of the heap. Of course, Troye would purchase at least three reels of film, as well as the lifetime warranty, to complete the package. Hence the $40 expense for the $20 camera -- he only wanted the best for Connor. Which, of course, included asking Joey at the metals shop to engrave Connor’s initials into the device’s sterling silver plating. Troye wished for nothing more, after all, than to see Connor smile, truly smile, in lieu of the tired half-grins he managed as of late. A camera surely wouldn’t alleviate Connor’s distaste for his current situation, but it could place a bit of spark in his life. And, Troye figured, he could finally capture the world through his own unique lens.

 

“You’re frolicking with your dreams again.” Connor’s tease drew Troye back to the present moment. The warm smile that greeted his refocused eyes was enough to make his thoughts seem a place of lesser importance. “Welcome back,” Connor cast Troye an affectionate smile. Now this, that smile right there… That exceeded a half-hearted gesture.

 

“Thank you. I’m honored I have a welcoming committee,” Troye commented, his expression one of ease. They slipped into a few moments of quiet, and Troye used the time to sip thoughtfully at his coffee. 

 

“You know what I think? About the writing?” 

 

“The wr--? Oh." With the silence severed, Troye set his mug back onto the table's surface. "I don’t believe I’m telepathic, Con. Care to enlighten me?”

 

“I think you need to stop selling yourself short. I’m sure whatever you wrote was stellar.” At that, Troye felt his cheeks burn.

 

“I can assure you, it wasn’t.” He cast Connor a knowing smile. He could just faintly feel the toe of the other’s show met his own. The contact was subtle, yet it sent Troye’s heart lurching.

 

“Bring it next time. Tomorrow evening, how about? Eight o'clock?” Connor’s suggestion took Troye by surprise. They'd never set a time for these meetings, nor discussed them prior. In fact, their interactions had been mainly limited to whatever chats they had within the walls of this small restaurant. (It had dawned on Troye a few nights ago that they even had yet to swap telephone numbers.) Still, despite how different a scheduled time was from their usual routine, Troye nodded eagerly, perhaps frantically, and didn’t give himself time to consider how crazed he might have appeared.

 

“Tomorrow evening!" He parroted the words back, as if they were the most enlightening revelation. A man wiping off a table nearby shot a glance in their direction, and Troye cleared his throat awkwardly. He rearranged his hands, clasping them on the table. "Here? Of course. Yes. Affirmative,” he gushed, an awestruck smile seeking residence on his features.

 

“It’s a date, then.” Connor’s shoe nudged Troye’s; it lingered for a while. Troye felt as though the contact, paired with his racing pulse, could sear through the patent leather.

 

“A date, it is.”

 

A certain tingling sensation settled throughout his body, and ceased its blissful hold. Around them, the soft tune of a song filled the quiet diner air. They conversed for two hours more, Connor's foot never once breaking contact with Troye's. Laughs were shared, insights were made, and Troye was reminded of why he kept returning to this diner, why he always dreaded opening the door until he saw a familiar chestnut coiffure across the dining area. Never in his life, before he'd met Connor, had he felt so undeniably free.

 

 

They experienced occasional lulls in conversation, during which they'd both smile, content with the moment. During one of these aforementioned pauses, Troye allowed his eyes to fall shut. Dark lashes fanned across his cheeks as he listened to the lyrics of the song that had begun to play, just as Connor's foot shifted so their legs furthest from view were intertwined. His heart swelled with warmth, and a restful smile tugged at his lips. As he opened his eyes once more, he caught Connor's gaze. It was the returning smile he received that solidified the notion that their closeness, both physically and emotionally, was not accidental.

 

As the Coon-Sanders Orchestra's 'Down Where The Sun Goes Down' played through the record player across the room, Troye couldn't help but conclude that he felt truly at ease in this very moment. Something within him clicked, and it was as if he'd been wandering through a world of grey and it had, out of the blue, snapped into color. Because, even with sunrise fast approaching and the pressure of meetings occurring later that day, he felt no urgency to leave. Troye experienced no pull elsewhere, except towards Connor. Though they'd done this countless nights, tonight had gained a certain intimacy about it, a certain  _meaning_ that prevented Troye from simply excusing himself home like usual. He was rooted in his place and, for the first time ever, this feeling of entrapment associated itself with a new beauty, a new hope, that went by the name of Connor Franta. By the end of the night, prior to parting ways with a handshake that could have certainly been categorized as a _three-minute long_ hand hold, they'd exchanged phone numbers.

 

 

Troye arrived home at quarter to eight in the morning having never felt more alive.

 


End file.
